


Impractically Inevitable

by InLoveWithForever



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Humor, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 20:52:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18454415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InLoveWithForever/pseuds/InLoveWithForever
Summary: “Ron needs to grow up,” Fred said.Her gaze flitted from their joined fingers to the table strewn with bits of pranks in progress, candies meant to induce vomiting, and a jar of U-No-Poo. Below their feet was a joke shop, Fred’s joke shop. She bit her lip to keep from laughing. Grow up. Had he even realized what he’d said?---Fred might be a mischief-maker, but he knows what he wants. He also happens to know what Hermione needs.Written for Sing Me a Rare Volume 3.





	Impractically Inevitable

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sing Me a Rare Volume 3.  
> Song Prompt- Guys My Age by Hey Violet
> 
> I'm now on tumblr as [inlovewithforever](https://inlovewithforever.tumblr.com/).

Hermione had words for the person who invented thong knickers. Stern words, _profane_ words—and contrary to popular opinion, she knew plenty—because a scrap of scratchy lace did not belong between the cheeks of her arse.

She shifted on the sofa, wincing. Said strip of lace was creeping into places that hadn’t been explored in…well, it was a bit of a dry-spell that had driven her to slipping into the skin-tight dress and scrap of insufferable dental floss posing as knickers in the first place.

If the knicker-torture weren’t enough, above the fireplace, the clock mocked her.

Half eight…

She quadruple-checked the date in her planner and cast a _tempus_ , just in case.

Nine long chimes at nine…

She slipped off her heels. The stupid pumps pinched her toes, anyway.

Half ten…

At the taste of copper, she stopped chewing on her lip.

Eleven fifteen.

She knew better, but she’d clung to a teensy sliver of hope that tonight, this night of all nights, would be different. That she’d wear this dress with these God-forsaken knickers in the most awful shade of orange— _Chudley Cannons orange_ —and Ron would take one look at her and _see_ her. See her like he used to, look at her with that gleam in his eyes that promised to rip off her clothes and throw her down on the sofa and—well, sometimes that look had delivered... _nearly_ delivered. The point was, he’d tried. Used to try. He used to care enough to kiss her like he meant it and touch her like he craved her and maybe he hadn’t always gotten her off, but he’d wanted her. Now…

Now she had a chapped arse worn raw from her stupid undergarments, a rumble in her stomach from missing dinner, and a hollow feeling in her chest that was almost worse than the various shades of anger and sadness she’d worked her way through in the three plus hours since Ron was supposed to have arrived home to pick her up for their date. Their two-year anniversary date at the new restaurant in Diagon Alley that required a reservation weeks in advance. Two years of kisses and touches that in the last six months had fizzled into perfunctory missionary twice a week and most recently just once, always in the dark, and occasionally offering a lackluster orgasm if Ron could be arsed to reach a hand between their bodies.

_“Can’t you touch yourself?” he’d asked, cheeks flushed pink from some combination of embarrassment and exertion. “You’re better at it than I am.”_

Yes, she was better at it than he was, but he wasn’t ever going to get any better at it if he didn’t _try_.

And wasn’t that what all of their issues boiled down to? His lack of trying? _Caring_ enough to try?

She didn’t hate Ron, Gods no. She didn’t want to hex his bollocks off or give him boils in uncomfortable places. She loved him, she _still_ loved him, but there was only so long she could extend herself, _over_ extend herself to make up for the distance and effort Ron _wasn’t_ giving.

Then again, she wasn’t entirely blameless. Hadn’t she set the precedent years before? _Helping_ with his assignments and essays? Okay, so perhaps it wasn’t healthy to shoulder the blame for his shortcomings, but she could’ve nipped it in the bud years ago, could’ve put her foot down and established what she would and wouldn’t put up with. She hadn’t and she should’ve, but of course, he’d been on his best behavior when they first got together. His old, bad habits had returned slowly, but what a slippery slope it had been. The little issues like his inability to wipe out the sink after shaving or failing to listen when she talked about work had snowballed and turned into problems too big to tackle, too big to shrug off.

It wasn’t just three hours she’d wasted sitting on the couch waiting for Ron, but much, _much_ longer. She’d known it in her gut, and she’d ignored it, hoped against reason, and here she was, no longer waiting for Ron to return to take her on a date but for him to get back so she could—

The front door opened and Ron slipped inside while—Merlin, he was whistling. Whistling a jolly tune as he shut the door and toed his way out of his boots, stumbling a little as he turned, blue eyes widening as he spotted her on the couch.

“You’re still up.” He lobbed a slow, drunk grin her way. God, that stupid bloody grin that used to make her weak in the knees now only made her chest throb.

With lumbering steps Ron made it halfway to the couch before drawing up short, bleary eyes narrowing. “What are you all dolled up for?”

Of course it had slipped his mind. Ron wasn’t cruel. He hadn’t stood her up on purpose. He’d been forgetful, negligent. Maybe that was worse because just like he couldn’t be arsed to get her off, he couldn’t be arsed to remember their anniversary…or her celebratory promotion dinner…or her birthday.

Had things been different, had she ever released all the pent up frustrations she had, maybe they’d have screamed at one another and that fury could’ve sparked _something_ , something that could’ve kindled heat, angry sex and scratches down his back, bruises on her hips, and swollen lips for them both. Passion, and later, makeup sex followed by change.

But she’d been on her best behavior, too. She’d always been so careful not to start fights, to restrain the natural urge to push him to be better, to try harder, to—well, Ron called it nagging. Gods, hadn’t she been so lucky to be alive and have Ron, who for the first time wanted her when she wanted him? Too many of her friends had lost their lives for her to squander away her chance at happiness. Life was too short to fret about the little things, Ron’s forgetfulness, how he left his socks lying around, how he didn’t always get her off. She was alive and in love with her best friend who was also alive and he loved her and—wasn’t that enough?

Ron cupped his fist to his mouth, just barely covering his belch.

“Where have you been?” she asked, avoiding his question.

He shrugged out of his jacket and let it fall in a puddle on the floor, undoubtedly forgotten as soon as it slipped over his wrists. “The Leaky. Seamus got the first round and then McLaggen, you know how that arsehole is, has to one up everyone. He started talkin’ shite about how he can handle his drink better than any of us. One round turned to two turned to…” Ron huffed out a laugh. “Lost a little track of time. You know how it goes.”

She took a deep breath and nodded, just once. “Right.”

Ron cocked his head. “You look nice. A little much for the Ministry, though, eh?”

He gestured to his own chest, his brows wagging up and down.

She bit the inside of her cheek. She would not lose it. She would not yell. She would not point fingers or place blame, even if the writing was on the wall.

“It’s Friday,” she said.

Slowly, he nodded. “Right.”

Like talking to a brick wall. “Friday the 8th, Ron.”

Ron rubbed the space between his brows and sighed. “You’re talking in riddles, ‘Mione.”

He truly didn’t know. Was that worse, or better?

The lump in her throat said it was bad, regardless. “It’s our anniversary.” The clock chimed. “ _Was_ our anniversary.”

His eyes widened, lips parting. “Oh, fuck.” Tall as he was, two strides ate up the space between them. He collapsed on the cushion beside her and grabbed her right hand in his. His palms were slightly damp as he squeezed her fingers. “I’m such a git.”

His smile was lopsided and—Gods, she would not cry. She refused. If she cried, Ron would hug her and if he hugged her she’d swallow all the words she needed to say and they’d be exactly where they were before, stuck in this awful holding pattern where neither of them was truly happy but neither wanted to hurt the other by ending things, instead lingering in this safe space, limbo. If she didn’t bite the bullet, one day Ron would cave to the pressures of his mother and propose and she’d say yes because _why not_? But _why not_ wasn’t a good enough reason and neither was the fact that they were both alive when others weren’t. They hadn’t fought a war and won to become complacent.

“I’m sorry,” Ron repeated. “We’ll go out tomorrow, all right? I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

One day, once Ron finally grew up, he’d make someone very happy. But that someone wasn’t going to be her.

“Ron.” Her eyes stung, her nose tingling. No, no, _no_. She couldn’t cry.

He shook his head, eyes wide and wet and suddenly so clear, startlingly sober. He squeezed her hand, his grip desperate, clinging. “’Mione.”

“Please don’t make me say it.” Her lower lip quivered, her toes curling and uncurling, tension making her body do stupid things to keep from releasing the tears that threatened to spill over.

His jaw slid forward, teeth grinding and she cringed. His poor teeth. Such a stupid thing to focus on. Their relationship, what still existed of it, was taking its last gasping breath and she was thinking about his molars.

“I buggered it all up, didn’t I?” he muttered.

Yes, he had. But in a way, so had she. In her attempt to keep everything calm and avoid fights, she’d also avoided fighting _for_ this, _for_ them. And now it was too little, too late.

She shook her head. “You’re my best friend. I love you.”

He _was_ her best friend and she _did_ love him. Losing him was the last thing she wanted, and that was why this was so necessary, ending what they never should’ve started, a relationship they were never truly compatible in, before they got so bitter that what really mattered couldn’t be salvaged.

Ron tilted his head and stared at the ceiling, blinking hard and fast. “It’s not enough, is it?”

She squeezed his hand.

It wasn’t.

***

Six weeks.

That was long enough for the dust to settle, right?

Sure, her wounds were a little tender around the edges, but they had to get back to normal eventually, didn’t they? Or, whatever their new normal was? If too much time passed, it would be awkward, _more_ awkward than it inevitably would be, especially if they built up their eventual meeting into something too big, daunting.

The only way past the awkwardness would be through it.

It was right after six, meaning the shop would have _just_ closed. Dumping her fistful of Floo powder, Hermione called out, making sure to enunciate, “Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.”

A tongue twister that was, especially for such a precise, finicky form of travel.

Such a finicky form of travel that she stumbled upon arrival.

A set of arms caught her before she tumbled to the floor. “Steady there. I know I’m dashing, but there’s no need to swoon, Granger. Or, perhaps I should say _stranger_?”

If the voice wasn’t obvious, the scent of gunpowder and sugar just this side of burnt would’ve been a dead giveaway.

“Fred,” his name came out all kinds of embarrassingly breathy, her face heating not just because of her near spill. She stepped back, forcing him to let go, but not before his hands slipped down her arms and briefly squeezed her fingers. She cleared her throat. “Thanks.”

Fred reached up, tugging on the lobe of his left ear. “Got it in one.”

Even if George hadn’t lost an ear, she’d have been able to tell them apart. Always had, always would. It had gotten on their nerves, their ability to fool anyone and everyone including their mother, but not her. When pressed, she’d made up some fib about others not paying close enough attention to the minute differences, not _entirely_ a lie. There _were_ small differences in their appearance she had picked up on over the years, little things like how George had an extra freckle beside his left eye and Fred one beside his lower lip.

What she hadn’t said was it had been Fred, always Fred and _only_ Fred, who with a single smile, a single _look_ could make her stomach do stupidly improbable, anatomically impossible moves like flip upside down and rise into her chest while simultaneously threatening to drop out her bum and flop onto the floor.

George could grin at her—he often did—but it lacked a certain something in the eyes, never made her flush or tremble with some asinine mixture of nerves and embarrassment, nor did it make her hyperaware of where her limbs existed in space.

Fred cleared his throat, brows lifted. Gods, how long had she zoned out?

“Sorry. I’m a little…” She gestured abstractly around her head. “Floo always make me fuzzy.”

Fred cocked his head, those brown eyes of his studying her a little too closely. He always looked at her like that, was always slightly too perceptive. Part of being a decent prankster, he’d said, was having an awareness of one’s surroundings and one’s target.

“What brings you by today?” he asked, tucking his hands inside the pockets of his purple pinstripe trousers that fit him _so_ perfectly.

Right, the reason why she was here. “I’m here to see Ron, actually.”

Fred rocked back on his heels, lips twisting into a rare frown. “You just missed him. He left early for his—”

He winced.

“For his…?” she prompted.

Fred cleared his throat, tongue poking out to wet his lower lip, drawing her eye to that special freckle. “He has a date.”

Of course he did. It had been six weeks. Maybe things between the two of them had been perfunctory there toward the end, the sex few and far between, but six weeks was longer than they’d ever gone between, so it made sense Ron was putting himself out there.

Only…when had been the last time he’d left work early to pick _her_ up for a date? Never?

No, no, that was bitter of her. It was good Ron was turning over a new leaf. Whoever this new girl was deserved it. “Right. Erm, anyone I know?”

Fred’s whole face puckered, his brow furrowing and lips twisting. “Hermione.”

Was that such a strange question?

“There are no hard feelings. I’m just curious.” She shrugged. Maybe it would be someone nice, someone stable and mature who would help usher Ron into a new chapter of his life, one where he didn’t ditch on plans or come home late reeking of the pub. Someone who would make him want to be a better partner because it certainly hadn’t been her but—

“It’s Lavender,” Fred murmured.

A phantom giggle and a simpered _Won-Won_ made her stomach twist.

So much for that. _If_ Ron was going to grow up, it wouldn’t be anytime soon, not with Lavender on his arm.

“Of course it’s Lavender.” Not that she wanted Ron back, heavens no and good riddance, but it was always Lavender. “I should go.”

“What? No.” Fred stepped closer and crossed his arms. “You haven’t been by the store in weeks.”

True... “It’s been—well, I thought space was a good thing and then I realized I didn’t want things to be awkward so I decided to drop by and say hello, but…”

His eyes narrowed. “My brother might be a bit of an arse and he definitely has dung for brains, but he’s not the only Weasley who works here, you know?”

“You should really be kinder to George. He’s not _that_ bad,” she joked.

His lips didn’t as much as twitch. “Just because ickle Ronniekins was too stupid to realize how lucky he was doesn’t mean we all need to suffer for it. You weren’t just my brother’s girl. We’re friends, aren’t we? That hasn’t changed, has it?”

Her brain snagged on the insinuation that Fred thought _Ron_ had been lucky to have _her_ , before a cold-shower of shame doused her. “Of course we are.”

Friends.

She was friends with Ginny, respected Bill, once had an embarrassingly short-lived crush on Charlie, tolerated Percy while admiring his work ethic, and George was like a brother with all his pranks and good-natured ribbing. Fred had never neatly fit into any of those boxes, her feelings for him so confusing that she usually put them out of her mind entirely. _Tried_ to put them out of her mind.

For the first time since she’d stumbled through the Floo, Fred grinned, his chocolate eyes flashing with that mysterious _something_ that set him apart from his twin. “Glad to hear it. Then you won’t be so scarce?”

“I won’t.”

Fred hummed, lifting a hand to stroke his chin thoughtfully. “If that’s a promise, we should shake on it.”

He extended his right hand, fingers wiggling playfully. She eyed it, inspecting it carefully. She knew better than to trust even a simple handshake from a mischief-maker like Fred Weasley. He _always_ had a trick up his sleeve.

“Come on. I won’t bite.” Fred winked. Gods, he was good at that, _winking_. “Where’s that Gryffindor courage?”

Of course he had to call her courage into question.

Cutting her eyes, she placed her hand in his. Her palm tingled, skin zinging, but that was nothing new when she touched him, nothing to concern herself over more than she usually did. “I promise I won’t avoid the shop.”

Fred nodded, but didn’t immediately release her. His thumb stroked the back of her hand once, twice, three times, the friction of his skin sliding against hers sending a shiver up her spine. Finally he let go with a smile, his eyes dancing with mirth. “Good.” He clapped his hands together. “Now that we have that settled, why don’t you come on up for a visit? You’ve missed at least three new product releases, don’t you know? WonderWitch products to boot.”

“What a shame,” she teased.

Fred lifted his hand to his chest in mock indignation. “You wound me. I’ll have you know these products, these brilliant—nay, _ingenious_ —innovations that my astoundingly handsome if not lopsided brother, George, and I have so skillfully, so _artistically_ created—and bravely tested on ourselves first, mind—have multiple uses, a few of which even you might not only approve of, but also enjoy.”

She’d never say it, but her curiosity was piqued. When it came to Fred, her curiosity was _always_ piqued. “My apologies for hurting your fragile feelings, Fred.”

He grinned. “As one of the proprietors of this fine establishment that makes most appropriate use of alliteration, I approve. But you did hurt my feelings and now I insist you make it up to me.”

“By doing what?”

“You see, I was only going to ask you to stay long enough to peruse the new offerings, but now I insist you stay for a drink.”

Well… “I guess I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea.”

“ _Wouldn’t_ _mind a cup of tea_ ,” Fred parroted, once more snatching her hand, only this time tangling their fingers together as he pulled her deeper into the shop toward the set of stairs that led to the flat he shared with George. “Is tea what you _really_ want, Hermione?”

Between the feel of his fingers, slightly warm but blessedly dry, entwined with hers, and that out-of-left-field question, they were halfway up the stairs before she found words. “Maybe?”

Fred laughed, and despite the fact that it had come from _his_ chest, she could’ve sworn it resonated all the way down into _her_ toes. “ _Maybe_ , she says. Life’s too short not to ask for what we really want, don’t you think?”

He referenced that often, the fleetingness of life, ever since he’d nearly been crushed to death during the battle. He always couched it as a breezy joke, played it off like an excuse to seize life by the horns or in application, make more mischief. But those smiles never reached his eyes, eyes that looked just a touch haunted, but always very determined as if it was a reminder more to himself than anyone else, not to squander away the time he’d been given.

“And what is it you want, Fred?” she asked when they reached the landing, stopping just outside the door to the flat.

“Oh, me? I want loads of things.” His gaze flickered down to where he held her hand. For some reason her breath caught. “But for now I think I’d like it if the brightest witch of our age gave her opinion on the latest offerings of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, yeah?”

Was it stupid she was disappointed? Yes. And Gods, what for? What had she wanted him to say? What had she wanted him to _do_? Nothing that made any sense. She had no business thinking _those_ sorts of thoughts, especially not about Fred Weasley of all people.

Here he was, asking her to peruse his latest prank offerings and hadn’t she ended things with Ron, in part, because of his immaturity? So no, best put a stopper in those thoughts _yesterday._

At her nod, Fred pushed the door open and with the hand not holding hers, gestured to the open doorway. “After you.”

For a flat occupied by two men, two _Weasley_ men, it never failed to surprise her how tidy the place was. Sure, there was a bit of clutter on the coffee table, a stack of papers here and there on the counter, but who didn’t have a stack of something or other? At least there were no socks on the floor, no shorts, no half-eaten crusts of pizza and bottles of butter beer lying about.

Also absent from the flat?

“Where’s George?” she asked, settling down onto the couch after she’d tested the cushion with her hand. Just in case.

Fred disappeared around the corner into the kitchen. “Out. Date with Alicia.”

Was _everyone_ on a date except for her? And Fred, of course.

Humming noncommittally, Hermione took stock of the table. A box of Puking Pastilles lay on its side, several of the purple and orange candies scattered across the wood, and what appeared to be a disassembled Screaming Yo-yo lay in the center of the table. Nothing new as far as she could see, so Fred must’ve been fetching the products. Though, if they needed to be stored in the kitchen… she didn’t much like the sound of that.

Except, instead of returning with a new and—arguably—improved version of Skiving Snackboxes, Fred carried a bottle of wine in one hand and two glasses in the other. And not just any wine.

“That’s my favorite,” she blurted.

Fred lifted the bottle, glancing at the label in mock surprise. “Huh, would you look at that? What a coincidence.”

She rolled her eyes. “Fred.”

With a flick of his wand, the bottle uncorked, levitated, and tipped on its side, filling both glasses halfway without as much as a drop spilled. Fred shrugged, eyes on the bottle as he set it to rights. He handed her a glass and finally met her eye. “I’ve been known to pay attention a time or two.”

Of course, but this was different. This wasn’t fodder for pranking. Not even Ron remembered her favorite wine beyond that it was red and she preferred it from a bottle not a box.

“Well, thank you.” She took a sip and set the glass down on a coaster beside the Puking Pastilles. “So, where are these new products I’m to look at?”

“All in good time,” he said, shifting until he rested against the arm of the couch. His feet pointed in her direction, his legs so long that even sitting a cushion apart, their knees nearly knocked. “It’s been…what, over a month since we talked? What with you trying to rush out of here, you’re going to give a bloke a complex.” Fred leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. “I don’t stink, do I?”

No, he smelled spicy and a touch metallic like gunpowder and sweet like homemade candy and the combination was enough to make her swallow hard. “You smell just fine, Fred.”

There it was again, that breathy quality to her voice that made her sound as if she belonged operating a phone-sex line.

“I smell just fine.” His lips twitched as he tapped the tip of his nose. “My nose is working, yes.”

She rolled her eyes. “Your scent is…it’s nice.”

“Nice,” he repeated, staring.

“Inoffensive.” She nodded, for some reason unable to look away.

The left corner of his mouth curled slowly, his grin crooked in a way that contributed to his general air of mischief. “A ringing endorsement. Hermione Granger says my smell is inoffensive. I’ll alert the Prophet.”

“Stop it.” No amount of biting the inside of her cheek could contain the laughter bubbling up inside her. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Fred shook his head, his own laughter petering off, his smile turning wistful. “Six weeks is a long time. Too long.”

There it was again, that look in his eye that sparked a funny feeling in her gut like she’d chugged a butter beer and then eaten several Fizzing Whizbees. She reached for her glass and took a long sip.

“I suppose I needed a bit of distance. Or maybe I thought he needed it? We needed it? I don’t know, never mind.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

She snorted. “Do you really want to hear it?”

Not that she had anything particularly disparaging to say, but still, it was doubtful Fred wanted to listen to her recount her breakup with his little brother. Even if she wasn’t lambasting Ron, it wasn’t right to put Fred in that position.

“Ron wouldn’t know a good thing if it bit him on the arse.”

She laughed weakly. “He’s your brother, Fred.”

A gentle reminder that he didn’t need to take her side. There didn’t need to _be_ sides, but if there were, he could take his brother’s. It would hurt, but she’d be okay.

“He _is_ my brother, you’re right, and I love him. But he’s also git and I’m allowed to say it.” He paused. “Well, don’t tell Mum I said it, but between you and me...”

“Your mother isn’t exactly speaking to me at the moment.”

Fred winced and ran his fingers through his hair. “Right.”

To Molly, there were sides and she had made hers perfectly clear.

Hermione swallowed down another sip of wine, her glass now only half-full.

“You know what Ron’s problem is?” Fred asked.

“Which one?” _Shoot_. She slapped a hand over her mouth, eyes widening. She hadn’t meant to say that.

Fred chuckled and reached for her glass, setting it aside. He snagged her hand and squeezed her fingers like it was the most natural thing in the world, touching her, when in reality it was new. New and confusing but so nice she couldn’t bring herself to question it. Not aloud.

“Ron needs to grow up,” Fred said.

Her gaze flitted from their joined fingers to the table strewn with bits of pranks in progress, candies meant to induce vomiting, and a jar of U-No-Poo. Below their feet was a joke shop, _Fred’s_ joke shop. She bit her lip to keep from laughing. _Grow up_. Had he even realized what he’d said?

“Ron doesn’t know what he wants,” Fred continued, tracing nonsensical patterns into her skin with his thumb. “And what he has? He takes for granted.”

The furrow between his brow and the downward tilt of his mouth spoke of disappointment on a level she’d never seen him exhibit.

“Life’s too short for that,” he whispered. “Too short to take who and what we love for granted.”

Fred never did that. In fact, he threw himself into everything he did with his entire heart. _Why half-arse something when you can whole-arse it instead?_ He’d joked.

Suddenly the Puking Pastilles on the table and the Screaming Yo-yo weren’t so laughable. They were pranks, they were meant to be funny, but they were also proof—the entire store beneath their feet was proof—that Fred knew exactly what he wanted and he went after it.

Her head was dizzy and it had nothing to do with the wine.

“Ron’s practically a child. You need—”

What _did_ she need? She wet her lips, her mouth parched. “Someone who won’t take me for granted?”

Fred’s lips twitched, his eyes still locked on their hands. “Bare minimum. You need someone who knows just how bloody lucky he is. Someone who knows what he wants, knows what _you_ want, and knows how to give it to you. Someone who knows when to be spontaneous, but also when a bit of patience is called for.” His gaze landed on her, his eyes dark, darker than normal. “I bet Ron rushed, didn’t he?”

Her face prickled, cheeks flaring with warmth. Was he truly asking if—“Fred.”

He tsked, shaking his head. “Wanker,” he muttered beneath his breath.

The flat was an inferno, or maybe it was just her, this conversation, this surreal and wholly inappropriate topic, this skirting around the admission that Ron hadn’t always gotten her off and that, for some reason, Fred cared.

His fingers spasmed in hers and his tongue darted out from between his lips, swiping at the bottom one. A muscle in his jaw twitched. “I wouldn’t rush and I sure as hell wouldn’t take you for granted.”

Her heart beat so hard, so loud inside her head she must’ve had misheard him. He couldn’t possibly have said…could he? Was it a hypothetical, or…? She shook her head. “Fred—”

“No. Please. I want—no, I need to say this. And if you don’t like it, we can pretend I never said it, but that doesn’t change the fact that I need to speak my piece, yeah? So here it goes.” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “You’re—Gods, Hermione.” He blew out his breath, shaking his head, eyes wide. “You drive me mental, you know that? Wanting you, I mean, in case that bit wasn’t obvious. I’m mad about you, I have been for—too long. But, contrary to what Percy says, I’m not a shite brother, so I kept my mouth shut and I stood back and watched Ron take you for granted and I hated every second of it. Because you deserve so much more than that and if you let me…”

Fred trailed off, eyes wide and searching, staring at her, desperate.

The only thing keeping her from panicking was the hand holding hers. Her teeth scraped her bottom lip. Gods this was—how had she gotten here? How was she having this conversation with Fred of all people? There were, quite possibly, no two people more impractical and yet something about it felt inevitable, a strange pull beneath her breastbone, a tightness in her chest that she’d always ignored. Impractical and inevitable…the logical part of her brain wanted to say that was contradictory and yet, wasn’t that what magic was? Impractical and inevitable and _incredible._ And so very real.

“If I let you?” she prompted.

Fred dipped his chin, lips flattening as he swallowed once more. When he lifted his eyes, they were filled with the familiar look of determination that when focused on her, snatched her breath away.

With his free hand, he reached up, and tugged her lip free from between her teeth. He kept his hand there, cupping her jaw, his thumb stroking her bottom lip. “If you let me, I’d treat you the way you deserve to be treated.” His brows arched, lips twitching. “And you’d always come first, pun intended.”

It _was_ funny, she should laugh, but there was a lump in her throat making it difficult to say anything, let alone the right something. “Fred.”

He nodded. “Always a good sign when you can make a girl say your name. The _right_ name at that. Though, in my head you said it louder. Screamed it, really. But room for improvement is good. Keeps a bloke humble.”

Trying not to smile was futile. She huffed out a laugh and shook her head. “You—you _like_ me? _You_ like _me?_ ”

Just so they were clear.

Slowly, Fred shook his head, making her stomach do that stupid, anatomically impossible jig. “No. I mean, I do! Yes, but _like_ is really a rather mild way of putting it.”

“You… _really_ like me?”

He nodded. “I really do.” Fred cleared his throat and let go of her face. “But I understand if you don’t, or if it’s too soon or too strange, or if you’re still hung up on my git of a brother.”

“I’m—”

He shook his head and pressed a finger to her lips. “Like I said, I won’t rush and I mean it in more ways than one.” He smiled. “You know what I want. And if, on the off chance, you happen to want the same thing, well”—he took a deep breath—“you know where to find me.”

“But—”

“No rush,” Fred insisted. His smile tilted, turning a bit wry. “Unlike Ronald, I’m a bit more difficult to get rid of, so be sure, yeah? Be really sure.” He turned his head, glancing at the clock above the mantel. “Would you look at that? It’s getting rather late.”

“Fred—"

Tugging her up from the couch, Fred pulled her in the direction of their private Floo and ushered her inside the fireplace. He snagged a handful of powder in one hand and stroked her cheekbone with the other. His grin was nearly manic, his eyes nervous as they darted over her face. “Be sure.”

The world spun and suddenly she was inside her flat, coughing slightly as the room continued to spin and she stumbled from the hearth.

Had that just—did that just happen? Had Fred really confessed to… wanting her only to… shove her in the fireplace and send her on her way? All because he thought _she_ might not want _him_? Merlin’s beard, she was—frustrated, immensely frustrated, and that was putting it lightly.

The idea that she might _not_ want him was laughable in a very _unfunny_ way. Yes, up until half an hour ago, she might not have thought them suited, but that didn’t negate the fact that her breath caught, and her stomach flipped, and she very much _did_ want him in all the ways she’d ever wanted anyone, _more_ than she’d ever wanted anyone. Her skin burned and her cheeks flushed and heat pooled between her thighs.

But he’d told her to think, to be sure. She _felt_ sure, but thinking couldn’t hurt, could it? Never. If, on the off chance she talked herself out of it, well then, it wasn’t meant to be, was it?

The least she could do was sleep on it. Yes, sleep…if she could calm her racing her heart. Perhaps a bath would help. She’d have a long soak and in the morning she’d reevaluate. And if she felt the same, she’d march right over to Fred’s flat and—

She’d cross that bridge once she came to it.

First, a bath. She made it to the bathroom and flicked on the lights, blinking into the brightness and—

Blue.

Her hair was blue, a shock of electric, cobalt curls piled high atop her head. She blinked, clenching her eyes shut before opening them and—no, her reflection was unchanged. Blue hair, all thanks to one culprit.

Growling beneath her breath, she marched back to her fireplace, tossed down a handful of powder, and called out the name of their private grate before she could talk herself out of it.

She caught herself on the stone arch and huffed. “ _Fred_.”

His red head ducked out of the kitchen, smiling placidly, but his eyes…oh those eyes. Half scared, half eager, Fred was looking at her like—

Like she was exactly what he wanted, blue hair and all.

“Hermione.” He wiped his hands on his trousers and stepped further into the living room, stopping several feet away, giving her a wide berth. “Forget something?”

“My hair is blue,” she said.

He rolled his lips together, clearly biting back a grin. “It suits you.”

“My hair is blue,” she repeatedly dumbly, because what she was about to say next was terrifying and repeating the obvious was safe. “I’m not quite sure _why_ my hair is blue, but I do know that I want to kiss you.”

Fred ducked his chin. In the short amount of time since she’d left, his own hair had gone from sweetly disheveled to an absolute wreck, as if he’d done nothing but run his finger through his ginger strands for the entirety of the five minutes she’d been away.

Lifting his head, Fred pinned her with a hot stare offset by a crooked grin. “Convenient that I’d like to be kissed, isn’t it?”

_Nothing_ about them was convenient, not the pair, not the timing, but here they were, teetering on the precipice of something much too _much_ to be ignored.

Knees weak, be it from the trip or his blasted smile, she closed the distance between them until the toes of her flats butted up against his socked feet. When all he did was smile down at her, she huffed. “You’re too tall, Fred.”

He rested his hands on her hips, squeezing lightly. “Already bossing me around, eh?”

She swallowed and shrugged. “Is that a problem?”

Fred shook his head. “I like you bossy. Though”—his smile turned secretive, the dimple in his cheek and the darkening of his eyes promising something wicked—“I’ve been known to be a bit demanding myself, if you catch my drift.”

A desperate, needy sound halfway between a whimper and a groan clawed its way up her throat. “If you don’t kiss me right this second I’ll—”

His mouth was on hers, swallowing the threat, a good thing because she hadn’t known how to finish it.

Peppermint, Fred tasted like peppermint and her favorite wine and the gunpowder smell of him was stronger up close, like it lingered on his collar, maybe in his hair from some prank gone awry. But it was hard to focus on what danger he might’ve put himself in for laughs when he was kissing her like he meant it, his lips firm, his teeth teasing her bottom lip, that tongue of his she’d watched wet his lips too many times to count swiping at the seam of her mouth, begging entry she gladly granted.

Their mouths parted, just long enough to gasp a breath of air. She sneaked in a quiet, “Bedroom _, now_ ” to which he grinned and obliged, the hands on her hips sliding down, over her rear to where the curve of her bum met her thighs. He hoisted her up and she wrapped her thighs around his slim hips, clinging tight.

He flicked the lights and tossed her on the bed, grinning when she bounced. In retaliation, she reached for the bottom of her blouse and whipped it over her head. Fred blinked twice, throat bobbing.

“Hell, Hermione,” he rasped, shaking his head slowly. “You’re—”

_Don’t say perfect_. She wasn’t and she hated it because it sounded so trite, as if the word could erase her scars, most of them hard-earned.

“Beautiful,” he said. His eyes were dark, his smile soft, as if he liked what he saw, liked it, _her_ , in more ways than one. He chuckled, one finger tracing the scalloped edge of her sapphire bra. “The color blue really does suit you, you know?”

She wrinkled her nose and reached for the hem of his shirt. “Off, take this off.”

Fred stepped back and tutted. “Not so fast. I distinctly remember telling you I wasn’t going to rush, or did you think I was joking?” He shrugged. “I might joke about plenty, but this? Never this.”

Frustration made her huff. “Please.”

He tilted his head to the side. “As promised, I’m going to take my time with you.”

And so he did.

With nimble, sure fingers, Fred popped the button on her jeans and peeled the denim down her thighs and off her feet, her bra and knickers following in short order. Totally starkers, Hermione squirmed when all Fred did was stare. “ _Fred_.”

He blinked twice, shaking his head, cheeks pinking. He grinned at her, sheepish. “Sorry. Figured I had to be dreaming there for a moment.”

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t bother biting back her smile. “Touch me.”

“Patience is a virtue, hadn’t you heard?”

Right. And Fred Weasley was _so_ virtuous. “Right now, patience is overrated.”

“But foreplay”—Fred smirked—“certainly is not.”

He propped himself up beside her on the bed, hand skimming up the curve of her thigh, her hip, her waist, gooseflesh prickling in the wake of his touch. His thumb swept against the skin of her ribs, just beneath her breast, before finally ghosting across her nipple. He pinched her lightly, then harder, grinning devilishly when she squirmed, back arching and hips lifting.

She’d never been so turned on in her life. “Fred.”

He licked his lips, teeth sinking into his lower lip. “Have I mentioned I like how you say my name? Because I do.”

She’d keep saying it if he kept touching her.

Too desperate to care how she looked, Hermione spread her legs and grabbed Fred’s hand, dragging it down her stomach, stopping at the curls between her thighs, those blessedly _not_ blue. “Please.”

Fred’s lips twitched, copper lashes fluttering as he parted her folds, gathering wetness on his fingertips before circling her clit. He watched her, studying her reactions, cataloging what made her gasp and whimper, moan and pant. Whether he was naturally talented, a quick study, or well-practiced, she had no idea, didn’t _care_ to know, but Fred managed to bring her all the way to the edge…only to back off.

Again. And again. And again.

Each time she’d whimper, he’d slow until her head thrashed against the pillow, blue hair surely frizzing. “ _Fred_.”

He ducked his head, tongue and teeth toying with her breast, a little rough, just the way she liked because for Godric’s sake she wasn’t made of glass. He nipped her lightly, chuckling hot and damp against her skin when she cried out. “A little delayed gratification makes the reward”—he circled her clit faster, firmer, fingers flying until the thread holding her together snapped, vision darkening as she _finally_ fractured—“all the sweeter.”

Her pulse hadn’t slowed, not by much, and the sweat on her skin hadn’t even begun to cool when Fred kissed a path between her breasts, shifting on the mattress and sliding further down the bed, his mouth trailing lower until his head was between her thighs, the width of his broad shoulders spreading her legs.

His left hand reached up, seizing her wrist as he brought her palm to the back of his head and—

“ _Oh_.” Her fingers tangled in his hair when he fastened his mouth to her clit and sucked hard, his tongue—that _clever_ tongue—flicking rapidly back and forth. Two of his fingers sunk inside her and did something absolutely _brilliant_ , crooking just so, that in no time at all her heels dug into his back, her toes curling, back bowing as the pressure in her core became too much and she splintered into a million sated pieces.

Fred pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh and grinned up at her, the tilt of his lips just shy of being a smirk. “All right there?”

Maybe it was because his hair was a wreck from her fingers, his cheeks flushed, and his mouth cherry-red and wet with her arousal that she took absolutely zero offense to the cocky lilt of his voice. In fact, Fred could be as proud as he wanted, deserved to be seeing as he’d gotten her off twice and he was still wearing trousers.

“I’d be better if you took off your clothes,” she said, panting.

“Cheeky.” Fred winked, but he obliged, slipping off his shirt and tossing it across the room into the hamper.

It was her turn to stare at the way his chest tapered into a trim waist, his muscles defined without being too bulky, a beater’s build. His pale skin was covered in freckles and a dusting of copper-colored hair that grew thicker beneath his naval. Her mouth watered. “Trousers, too.”

They were gone in a flash, his undershorts as well. And he was— “Merlin.”

Fred grinned, hand slowly stroking the generous length of his cock as he gave her a moment to look her fill. Whether he finally grew impatient or perhaps embarrassed from being ogled—his cheeks _were_ a bit pink—Fred finally crawled onto the bed and knelt between her thighs.

“Yeah?” His gaze held hers, eyes bright behind heavy lids.

She nodded.

For once, Fred didn’t tease. With a snap of his hips, he buried himself inside her, his jaw clenching. “Bloody hell.”

The feeling of being joined was overwhelming, and that paled in comparison to when he began to move, thrusting steadily, pressing deep and hard and just right, the ridge beneath the head of his cock applying perfect pressure to _something_ inside her.

“Fred.” She gasped, heart climbing inside her throat as if it could do something _else_ improbable and escape from her mouth. She did the only logical thing possible in such illogical circumstances—she grabbed him by the back of the neck, yanking him down, sealing their lips together.

He grinned against her mouth and something about that, his obvious joy, paired with the press of his cock and the increased friction of his pubic bone against her clit sent her tumbling over the edge, pleasure making her twitch. A minute later, when Fred’s hips stuttered, she returned the smile, her lips curling against his.

Fred rolled to the side, immediately pulling her close, settling her against him, her head against his chest. It took several moments for her to catch her breath and for her heart rate to slow, the same for Fred, his heart pounding beneath her ear.

“Fred?” she whispered. Maybe it was silly, but she didn’t want to disturb the silence. It had been ages since she’d been this blissfully warm and content.

He hummed. “Hermione?”

Maybe he was on to something with that; the way he said her name was rather appealing.

“How long exactly has my hair been blue?”

He chuckled, chest rumbling. “Since we shook hands.”

She’d known he had _something_ up his sleeve. “How hard exactly will it be to get rid of? The color, I mean. _Not_ my hair.”

“Not nearly as difficult as it would be to get rid of me. You’re stuck with me now, I hope you know.”

Hermione grinned.

There were worse fates than to be stuck with Fred Weasley.


End file.
